Tell Them We're Survivors
by Kaslyna
Summary: A long Doggett/Reyes ficlet. Read more inside. Smutty, angsty, dark, and romantic. Some mentions of Brad/Monica. Like I said, explanation inside. My second M rated story and the first long one I've written, both in M and The X-Files, so please be kind.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A long Doggett/Reyes story that begins Pre-XF, then is AU with some parts canon, but not all. Spoilers for the episodes with them. :/ Using the dates given in "Release". My second M rated story so please, please be kind.**

**Disclaimer: The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. I own nothing. Do you?**

August 13, 1993

John wanders in a daze towards the hotel. He needs to thank her. John sighs and heads to her hotel room. She'd told him yesterday which one it was. Monica answers almost immediately and pulls him inside.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Barbara?" she asks, squinting curiously.

"I just," he swallows, "I just needed to thank you. For everything. You did your very best and I surely more than appreciate it, even if I come off as some hardheaded asshole."

"It's okay," she chuckles slightly and smiles a little, "It's a lot to go through, John."

"I know," he whispers, sighing as he sinks into a chair. She sits across from him on the edge of the bed and listens.

"Tell me, have you ever lost someone?" his voice falters a bit and she feels her resolve wavering. The walls are crumbling.

She shakes her head and responds, softly, "No, not really."

He nods and chuckles sadly as he responds, "Figured as much."

"How come?" she asks, genuinely intrigued.

"Because you seem too hopeful."

It's an odd statement but everything about this situation is odd. She knows it, he knows it, hell, she wouldn't be too surprised if someone else knew it. Before she can stop herself, rationalize, she is pulling him up into her arms and he is sobbing into her hair and she's murmuring that she's sorry, so, so sorry, and then she's crying, too, and they hold each other and shudder and breathe and their tears entwine.

Her lips crash onto his. He is shocked at first but melts slowly into the kiss. She tastes of peppermint and coffee and cigarette smoke and tears and it's so, so erotic for him and oh my God, he's cheating on Barbara and he doesn't even care. She coaxes his lips open, her tongue tangling with his. Stealing his pain, making it hers, making it theirs, if for just a little while. She moans a little and his hands crawl into her hair and they cry and kiss and he pushes her down onto the bed and she lets him. She nimbly unbuttons his shirt, watching as it floats downwards delicately. She allows her hands to roam across the smooth planes of his chest, the fine, sandy hairs and the few freckles near his nipples. Monica groans as he pulls her shirt over her head and as his fumbling fingers undo the clasp of her bra she shudders. He slides it gently off of her arms and watches as it flutters off of the bed. He undoes her pants and yanks them off. She does the same with his pants, watching as they pool at his feet. He grins and kicks them off and she pulls him down on top of her, digging her nails into his back.

John's mouth finds each nipple, teasing, tweaking, nipping until she is crying in agony and ecstasy. She slides off his boxers with ease and strokes him gently, letting her nails rake over him. He moans and cries out and sobs. He tugs off her panties and eases himself between her legs. Over and over he thrusts within her, until she is shuddering with her release and then he comes after her. They crash and he collapses onto her, panting heavily and sobbing still. She comforts him, keeping him on top of her, his head on her chest, until he finally, finally sleeps.

Monica looks out the window of the cold hotel room and cries herself to sleep.

* * *

The summer sunlight filters lazily through the window. He guesses it to be about five in the morning. The flood of memories is startling. John rolls over and props himself on one elbow to look at Monica. One last time before he goes back to pretending to love Barbara.

She is on her side, curled loosely into the fetal position. The blankets are strewn across various parts of her body. Her hair is splayed out and she breathes, slow and heavy, thick with sleep. A small smile flitters onto her face when he runs a hand down her arm. There are bruises and bites everywhere and he feels ashamed. Not because he cheated on Barbara, but because he's marred this beautiful woman lying next to him. He sighs wearily, exhausted thoroughly.

He watches Monica contentedly for a while longer, then he hesitantly, slowly kisses her hair, her forehead, her nose, her lips, and then he ghosts out of the bed, into the bathroom. He scrubs himself raw, until all traces of her are practically nonexistent. He finds a piece of paper and a pencil and scrawls a note. John dresses and, on a sheer impulse, snatches Monica's panties. He looks longingly, wistfully, at her once more before leaving.

He hears her whisper his name as he leaves and freezes. Then he dashes away, trying to hold back the tears.

* * *

When Monica wakes up, the clock reads 8:30 in the morning and her entire body is fucking _sore_, reminding her pleasantly of last night. She smiles, even as she reaches out and feels the rumpled, empty bed. She can't help feeling a tad nostalgic and sad about this but it'll be over soon enough.

She pads into the bathroom and it's obvious he has been here, too. She showers briefly, too quickly for her liking beneath the scalding needles of water. She scrubs off every last trace of him (aside from the various bruises and bites; those, unfortunately, cannot be scrubbed away).

Monica dresses and finds his note on the small table beside a chair. She sighs and picks it up. She reads it:

**M-**

**Thank you. I'm sorry. I want to be your friend. I don't regret last night, but it shouldn't have happened. Please forgive me?**

**Think about it-**

**J**

She sighs, rolling her eyes, chuckling, and smiling. Then she crumples up the paper and tosses it into the tiny wastebasket.

* * *

Monica has five minutes of peace at her apartment in Manhattan before Brad storms in. He wonders why the hell she had to stay in Woodbury. She explained the three day search and how it was easier than commuting, and by the end they were screaming at each other. Brad left almost as quickly as he'd shown up and she can't help feeling a little relieved, and a tad guilty. Because John wasn't the only one cheating last night. She did, too. And that made her feel a little bit better, like at least they were both cheaters and it justified it. Of course it didn't, and that meant that she'd have to tell Brad eventually. She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. She'd put it off for a little while.

The phone rings and she knows it's Brad. Not wanting to deal with his smothering apologies, she begins a bath. She climbs in and closes her eyes. She's not a bath person, but right now Monica really, really needs one. Once done, she puts on her bathrobe and goes out onto the small balcony. She sits in the rickety metal chair and lights a cigarette.

Three cigarettes later, Monica goes inside, changes, and flops down onto her bed for a long nap. She had not gotten much sleep last night.

Five hours later, a disoriented Monica is awakened by the shrill ringing of her phone. She groans and answers it with a grunt, "Reyes."

"Hey," it's Brad, "Look, Mon, I'm sorry. Can I come over later?"

She bites her lower lip and sighs before answering, cautiously, "I don't know Brad, I'm real tired. The past three days have been rough. I didn't get much sleep. Maybe tomorrow night we can get some dinner, see a movie. Something like that."

"Okay," he chuckles, a tad bemused, "Are you avoiding me?"

"What? No!" she exclaims, appalled.

"I'm teasing you."

"Oh, okay. Well, see you tomorrow, Brad."

"See you, Mon."

The phone clicks and she shudders with a sigh, burying her head in her hands and shaking it, smiling and snorting softly at the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation.

Then she goes back to sleep.

* * *

Monica is up at 8:30 PM and she groans, stretching her stiff, sore muscles. She showers, changes, uses the bathroom, and then decides to walk four blocks to a little Italian place. Monica eats quickly then returns home. She falls asleep on the couch watching reruns of Full House. Twenty minutes later she wakes up and drags her butt to bed, changing into a black camisole and her panties beforehand. She yawns and sighs, burrowing under the blankets for a few stolen moments of sleep.

The phone wakes her again at one and she ignores it. She continues to ignore it throughout the night. Eventually she picks it up, snapping, "_What?"_

"Hey, Monica," it's John.

She hangs up.

* * *

Monica is up at six. She showers, eats a breakfast of Cheerios, orange juice, and a half-bar of chocolate, then she changes into running clothes and goes out for a quick jog. Her muscles burn and scream for oxygen.

It's how she knows she's alive. That's it real. That she's not dreaming.

That somehow she fell in love with a guy she barely knows. A married man, no less.

And in just three fucking days.

What a disaster! She groans and makes her way home.

She burrows in her bed and cries herself to sleep.

That's how Brad finds her that evening.

* * *

"Hey, Monica," he murmurs softly into her ear, rubbing slow, small circles on her back. She grunts and stirs, turning to face him. She's been crying, still visibly upset, he notes. She's sweating, too.

"Dinner and a movie," she mumbles, a little less disoriented now that the fog of sleep was lifting, "Sorry, Brad. Guess I passed out there for a little while. Let me go shower and change and then we can get going."

He nods his agreement and watches as she enters the bathroom. Listens as the toilet flushes, the sink runs, and the shower is started. Normally he would have joined her, but tonight he can sense something's definitely wrong with Monica and figures trying to make love to her would end up with him having a black eye and no date. They've been seeing each other on-and-off for two years now. Things got serious about eight months ago. However, he's already in love with her. He sighs and closes his eyes.

Tonight he will be content with a date, and if he's really lucky, falling asleep with her, fully clothed, of course.

* * *

She stands under the warm spray and closes her eyes. She sighs, letting her mind drift away and wander. Wander back to the dream she had just had.

Finding Luke, the anguish in John's eyes. Having sex with him.

Finding it wasn't Luke in that field, it was John.

She absently touches a hickey on her neck. She's going to have to be really careful around Brad. They haven't been intimate since the first of August and he never, ever marks her. When she's clean, she dresses in the black slacks and wine-red shirt that goes to her elbows and is a turtleneck. Thought it's more suited for the autumn it'll cover the hickeys and bruises.

All she can do is pray to God Brad won't want to make love to her tonight, or at the very least, take the hint that she was utterly exhausted.

Monica sighs, squeezes her eyes shut briefly, snaps them open, smiles forcefully, and exits the bathroom.

"So, you ready?" she asks, casually, all smiles.

He nods, standing. He leads her out the door.

* * *

Their dinner is at a little diner. When they're done eating they see the movie; it's at some old-fashioned theater that features subtitled French and Italian movies. She doesn't know the title and doesn't give a fuck.

At her apartment he kisses her. Brief and sweet, and she smiles knowingly. He gets it. She rewards him by letting him stay the night. He watches her sleeping.

Something is going on with Monica, and he's not quite sure what it is, but he knows he sure as hell doesn't like it. He sighs and flutters his eyelids closed. Then he joins her in a peaceful slumber.

She wakes up from the nightmare. Brad's next to her, sound asleep. She pads out to the balcony. Monica sits and looks at the moon for a little while before going inside, knowing she won't be able to sleep.

So she changes, scribbles a note, and heads out into the quiet night. She shivers a little and begins to run. She ends up on a bench in Central Park, twenty-two blocks from her apartment. Monica laughs. Laughs! At the sheer insanity of everything unravelling in her life.

She goes home after the sun rises.

Little does she know, the trouble's only just begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: My first long X-Files fic so I'm a little nervous. ^^ And um. Like my second M fic. :/ Spoilers for Season 9 and every episode in Season 8 with Reyes and Doggett together. But not until like, Chapter 5 or whatever, so I can finish Season 9 myself. . I'm more than halfway through. Pre-XF still. And I hate skipping time unsubtly, but I want to so shush.**

**Disclaimer: Chris Carter and 1013 Productions owns The X-Files. I own nothing. Do you?**

September

A little over a month and a half has gone by and yet Monica still refuses to be intimate with Brad. It's getting annoying.

Not refusing. She can't. That's what bothers him, that she's hiding something. He wished she would tell him. He suspects it has something to do with the Luke Doggett case; she'd been badly broken after that one.

Never in a million years would he have ever guessed she'd cheated on him. And the irony of it all was that she'd cheated with a married man.

But here she is. On his couch. Telling him just that.

* * *

A Week Earlier...

Monica is tired. She's been so fucking tired for a week now. People have begun avoiding her because she's so overtired that she'll burst into tears or kick someone in the crotch without warning these days.

On top of it all, she's not hungry, which definitely does _not_ help improve her mood. By the tenth day (today, of course) she's ended up at her doctor's office. The doctor has taken blood; she's running quick tests and sending a few vials to the lab. Monica absolutely hates doctors. But that's beside the point.

She's, quite frankly, has gotten sick and tired of herself the past month or so. After Luke and John Doggett entered her life.

The doctor returns, startling her out of her silent reverie.

"Well?" she demands.

"Well, I ran some quicker tests, and I won't know for sure for another couple of days or so but," here she grins, "Monica, I think you're pregnant."

Her eyes widen in shock, shaking her head wildly as she stubbornly says, "No. No, that's impossible!"

But it's not.

It's possible that she's carrying John Doggett's child in her womb right now.

_Fuck! Fuck it all to hell!_

"We're going to do an ultrasound..."

* * *

By the end of the visit she emerges a soon-to-be mother. She has a picture from the ultrasound and a prescription for horse pills, er, prenatal vitamins. Doctor Franklin guesses from the size and whatnot that the fetus (baby!) is around five weeks old.

Meaning, since she hasn't touched Brad in almost two months, it's definitely John Doggett's baby inside her.

_Fuck_.

* * *

She sits on the bench and thinks.

It takes a week for her to end up on Brad's couch.

"Brad, I'm pregnant," she sighs, not looking up, ashamed, "And it's not yours."

"Whose...?"

"John Doggett's," she whispers, looking up slowly.

"Does he know? Will he know?"

She shakes her head, "It was a mistake, Brad."

"I know," he whispers, kneeling before her and sighing wistfully, eyes closed, "Monica. I'll forgive you. But I won't forget. I love you. I'll be here for you and the baby."

"Wait..."

"Just let me, please," he whispers, unused to begging. She nods briefly, contemplating the situation at hand.

"Alright," she sighs, nodding her consent, "Alright, Brad. Thank you. Thank you for forgiving but never forgetting."

"Anything for you," he whispers, standing, kissing her forehead, "I love you."

"Love you, too," she murmurs softly. Tired. Exhausted. Worn out and worn down.

He watches her sleep.

His heart shatters.

* * *

The rest of September is uneventful. They don't touch, nor do they speak about Monica's pregnancy. Secretly she's picked out names.

Isabella Faith Reyes if it's a girl. Alexander Lucas Reyes if it's a boy.

Brad knows he has no say. And so the distance between them increases.

October is not much different from September. Neither is November, nor December, when she is forced to buy maternity clothes. The monotony continues. She lets people believe whatever they wish about the child she carries. January, February, March, April, they all pass by, until it's May.

She's in the nursery when she goes into labor. Nineteen hours later, born at 7:22 AM on May 11, 1994, weighing 6 pounds and twelve ounces, Isabella Faith Reyes is born.

Mother and daughter both cry.

She's at home on May 16. She had to have some stitches. She places Isabella on the bed beside her and watching the tiny being. Her daughter makes tiny sucking noises in her sleep.

Her heart swells and aches with love, for her daughter, and for her daughter's father.

Three days later Isabella has a nickname, courtesy of Brad.

Sally.

_Joy_.

* * *

There is some lopsided routine to this.

Wake up, care for Sally (she's caved, finally), care for herself, take Sally to the sitter, Amber, work, eat, work, come home, eat, take care of Sally, take care of Brad, take care of Sally, take care of herself, and sleep. Again and again.

Lopsided, crooked.

But she takes a twisted comfort in it. That's all that really matters.

Brad's asleep next to her. From the baby monitor comes tiny, soft snores. She smiles thoughtfully. Turns on her side and tries to sleep again.

But when she closes her eyes she sees Luke Doggett, dead in the field. John Doggett's haunted eyes. Barbara Doggett's impatience.

Sally's youth and innocence destroyed.

She stops trying to sleep after a little while.

Goes into the living room. Picks up the phone.

"John Doggett," answers a sleepy voice, "This Monica?"

"John," she whispered, "Can you meet me in Central Park tomorrow at ten?"

"Sure."

She tells him where, asks how he is, thanks him, and hangs up.

She needs him to know that he has a daughter.

* * *

She lies to Brad about where she'll be and then she dresses her two-month-old daughter, packs a diaper bag, puts her in the stroller, and they head out. She stops by a coffee shop where she eats her breakfast and feeds Sally her bottle. Then they head to Central Park.

They are ten minutes early. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, ice-blue eyes downcast as he comes to her. He doesn't glance up, just sits beside her and looks at her.

She's beautiful, a little more shapely now than before. Womanly. His eyes drift to the child in her arms, no more than two months old. The child, a little girl, is asleep on her shoulder. Long black lashes and short chestnut curls.

"Hey," she murmurs, softly, trying not to wake Sally as she shifts closer to him.

"Hey, yourself," he nods, absorbing the child in her arms.

She sighs and closes her eyes, "John..."

"Is it mine?"

Her eyes snap open and slowly she nods, whispering, "I'm sorry."

"What's her name?"

She chuckles as she answers, shrugging slightly, "Isabella Faith Reyes. I call her Sally."

"When was she born?"

"May 11. She weighed 6 pounds 12 ounces and was born at 7:22 in the morning after nineteen hours of labor," she informs him.

"Wow," he whispers in awe, "Monica... why didn't you tell me?"

"John, you're married, you lost your son. We made a mistake, and I'll say it out loud, I don't regret it now and I didn't regret it then, but it was a mistake nonetheless."

He nods, then asks, cautiously, "Can I hold her?"

Monica nods, smiling radiantly as she agrees, "Sure."

She hands him the child.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

In that instant everything changes, as Sally stirs and opens her ice-blue eyes that surely won't fade with time.


End file.
